What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(51)

Rhiannon flipped through another ancient tome she’d found buried in the back of the royal archives. This area was for the scholars, witches, and mages. Unlike many dragons she knew, Rhiannon never cared much about learning for learning’s sake. She was a scholar only because it was necessary to be one as a witch. To be quite honest, she found this sort of research deadly boring. Yet she didn’t have much time and she knew it.

Annwyl’s body was simply not made to carry the kind of offspring she was near giving birth to. For those, like Rhiannon, who could see the tendrils of Magick wherever they looked, the power surrounding Annwyl almost blinded the Dragonwitch. For someone like Rhiannon, an actual birth of this kind would have exhausted her human body, but her natural, Magick-infused defenses would have most likely kept her healthy. But Annwyl was a true human warrior. There was absolutely no Magick inside her. No otherworldly skills that had been kept dormant until now. Her gift was her rage. The power of it was like a sudden storm that could wipe out an entire village in a night.

In the end, it was this pureness of Annwyl’s spirit and strong will that attracted those around her, from the lowliest peasant soldier to the heirs of Rhiannon’s throne.

Yet knowing all that hadn’t helped Rhiannon find a way to assist the human queen. She’d brought in the best and even the most controversial Dragonmages she knew of throughout the land. Even now, they researched and toiled in other caverns of the archives and library, trying to find a way to help Annwyl.

Rhiannon flipped to the last page and slammed the book shut. Another useless piece of Centaur crap, she thought, tossing the book into the pile on her left while her tail grabbed hold of another tome from the pile on her right.

“You’re up late this eve, my queen.”

As much as Rhiannon wanted to sigh and flop dramatically to the ground as Gwenvael always did when something bored him beyond all hope, she simply gave a small smile and answered, “Yes, yes, Elder Eanruig. Much to do.”

“Right. Before the birth of those children.” He walked across the room to one of the shelves, his tail slithering along behind him. He’d never seemed to have much control over that thing. Not the way most of her kind did. She couldn’t help but equate it to some lowly snake slithering across the ground, hoping to dine on whatever pile of shit it happened to find along the way. “We really must discuss what we’ll do with them once they’re born.”

Rhiannon looked up, not liking the sound of that statement at all. “Do with them?”

“Yes.” He grabbed something off the shelf and turned to face her, his tail scooting behind him. She was surprised it didn’t rattle as it moved. “The Elders and Your Majesty must discuss where the offspring will be taken once they’re born.”

“Taken? Why would they be taken anywhere?”

“You can’t seriously be considering allowing a human to raise them?”

“A human and my son, Elder Eanruig. And since the offspring will be both human and dragon this only makes—”

“Your son, my queen, is hardly the type to raise anyone’s offspring. Especially his own.”

The metal tip of Rhiannon’s tail that she sharpened at least once, if not twice, a day, scraped across the stone cavern floor. “I’m not sure as to your meaning, Elder.”

He walked toward her. He was an old Gold dragon, his golden hair nearly white with age, his scales no longer bright and clear but dull and worn. Though the more she’d gotten to know this dragon, the less she believed age had anything to do with it. Bercelak’s father was nearly nine-hundred years when he’d passed on and he’d been as beautiful then as he’d been when she’d first met him. He’d definitely aged, but he’d never lost his energy or his love of nearly everything. Eanruig the Scholarly, however, had none of that to lose. He lived his life in books and believed in the strict boundaries of bloodlines.

To him, her mother Queen Adienna had been perfect simply because she’d mated someone of her equal. Rhiannon lost that potential for perfection when she was Claimed by Bercelak, a low-born dragon of the Cadwaladr Clan. A breed of warrior dragon that f**ked, fed, and fought. From when she was a young hatchling, Rhiannon had heard the Cadwaladrs referred to as the battle dogs of the dragon royals. And that was how Adienna had treated them. Wars in far-off lands that needed no finesse or a ready truce? Send in the Cadwaladrs! Need a siege to last until the final starving body was dragged from the fortress ten years from now? Send in the Cadwaladrs!

More importantly, though, the Cadwaladrs didn’t mind. As long as they could continue to f**k, feed, and fight, they didn’t care where you sent them or what you expected them to do.

Yet what Eanruig forgot—what all the self-important royals always forgot: never f**k with the Cadwaladrs’ kin. Their bloodline may not be royal, but they protected it as any battle dog would protect its pups.

And Annwyl and Fearghus’s offspring were Cadwaladr bloodline.

The Elder she hated above all others now stood beside her, smirking down at her.

“You know exactly what I mean, my queen. Your son has betrayed his kind by Claiming this human girl and the gods have cursed them with these … these … aberrations. Unfortunately, there is nothing we can do about that now, except take control of the situation before it gets any worse. The Council will decide the best way for those offspring to be raised.” He leaned in a bit closer, and Rhiannon fought her body’s desire to tear him apart, scale by gods-damn scale. “And I do hope you didn’t send that foolish hatchling of yours—Gwenvael, I believe—into the north simply so he can start some minor war and you can take control of the Council. I strongly suggest a move such as that would be very unwise.”